by John Scalzi
After my PR stint, the CDF had me ride herd on new recruit transport ships. I was the guy who got to stand in front of a thousand old people in new bodies and tell them to have fun, and then a week later tell them that in ten years, three-quarters of them would be dead. This tour of duty was almost unbearably bittersweet. I’d go into the dining hall on the transport ship and see groups of new friends coalescing and bonding, the way I did with Harry and Jesse, Alan and Maggie, Tom and Susan. I wondered how many of them would make it. I hoped all of them would. I knew that most of them wouldn’t. After a few months of this I asked for a different assignment. Nobody said anything about it. It wasn’t the sort of assignment that anyone wanted to do for a very long time.
Eventually I asked to go back into combat. It’s not that I like combat, although I’m strangely good at it. It’s just that in this life, I am a soldier. It was what I agreed to be and to do. I intended to give it up one day, but until then, I wanted to be on the line. I was given a company and assigned to the Taos. It’s where I am now. It’s a good ship. I command good soldiers. In this life, you can’t ask for much more than that.
Never seeing Jane again is rather less dramatic. After all, there’s not much to not seeing someone. Jane took the first shuttle up to the Amarillo; the ship’s doctor there took one look at her Special Forces designation and wheeled her into the corner of the medical bay, to remain in stasis until they returned to Phoenix and she could be worked on by Special Forces medical technicians. I eventually made it back to Phoenix on the Bakersfield. By that time Jane was deep in the bowels of the Special Forces medical wing and unreachable by a mere mortal such as myself, even if I was a newly minted hero.
Shortly thereafter I was decorated, promoted and made to begin my barnstorming tour of the colonies. I eventually received word from Major Crick that Jane had recuperated and was reassigned, along with most of the surviving crew of the Sparrowhawk, to a new ship called the Kite. Beyond that, it did no good to try to send Jane a message. The Special Forces were the Special Forces. They were the Ghost Brigades. You’re not supposed to know where they’re going or what they’re doing or even that they’re there in front of your own face.
I know they’re there, however. Whenever Special Forces soldiers see me, they ping me with their BrainPals—short little bursts of emotional information, signifying respect. I am the only realborn to have served in Special Forces, however briefly; I rescued one of their own and I snatched mission success out of the jaws of partial mission failure. I ping back, acknowledging the salute, but otherwise I outwardly say nothing to give them away. Special Forces prefer it that way. I haven’t seen Jane again on Phoenix or elsewhere.
But I’ve heard from her. Shortly after I was assigned to the Taos, Asshole informed me I had a message waiting from an anonymous sender. This was new; I had never received an anonymous message via BrainPal before. I opened it. I saw a picture of a field of grain, a farmhouse in the distance and a sunrise. It could have been a sunset, but that’s not the feeling that I got. It took me a second to realize the picture was supposed to be a postcard. Then I heard her voice, a voice that I knew all my life from two different women.
You once asked me where Special Forces go when we retire, and I told you that I didn’t know—she sent. But I do know. We have a place where we can go, if we like, and learn how to be human for the first time. When it’s time, I think I’m going to go. I think I want you to join me. You don’t have to come. But if you want to, you can. You’re one of us, you know.
I paused the message for a minute, and started it up again, when I was ready.
Part of me was once someone you loved—she sent. I think that part of me wants to be loved by you again, and wants me to love you as well. I can’t be her. I can just be me. But I think you could love me if you wanted to. I want you to. Come to me when you can. I’ll be here.
That was it.
I think back to the day I stood before my wife’s grave for the final time, and turned away from it without regret, because I knew that what she was was not contained in that hole in the ground. I entered a new life and found her again, in a woman who was entirely her own person. When this life is done, I’ll turn away from it without regret as well, because I know she waits for me, in another, different life.
I haven’t seen her again, but I know I will. Soon. Soon enough.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This novel’s path to publication was filled with excitement and surprises, and along the way so many people provided help and/or encouragement that it’s hard to know where to begin.
But let’s begin with the people who had a hand in putting together the book you have in your hands right this instant. First and foremost, thanks to Patrick Nielsen Hayden for buying the thing and then judiciously providing the edits. Thanks also to Teresa Nielsen Hayden for her inestimable good work, sense, advice and conversation. Donato Giancola provided the hardcover cover art, which is far cooler than I could have hoped for. He rocks, as does Irene Gallo, who I hope is by now a Beach Boys fan. Thanks also to John Harris for the cover art on the paperback editions. Everyone else at Tor: All my thanks, and I promise to learn your names by the next book.
Early on several people offered their services as “beta testers,” and I offered a space in the acknowledgments in return. Stupid me, I lost the full list (it’s been a couple of years), but some of the people who provided feedback include (in no particular order) Erin Rourke, Mary Anne Glazar, Christopher McCullough, Steve Adams, Alison Becker, Lynette Millett, James Koncz, Tiffany Caron and Jeffrey Brown. There were at least this many whom I’ve forgotten, and whose names I can’t find in my E-mail archives. I beg their forgiveness, thank them for their efforts and promise that I’ll keep better records next time. I swear.
I am indebted to the following science fiction/fantasy writers and editors for their help and/or friendship, with the hope of returning both favors: Cory Doctorow, Robert Charles Wilson, Ken MacLeod, Justine Larbalestier, Scott Westerfeld, Charlie Stross, Naomi Kritzer, Mary Anne Mohanraj, Susan Marie Groppi, and most particularly Nick Sagan, whose family name I appropriated in the novel (a tribute to his father), and who in addition to becoming a good friend is a valued member of the Nick and John Mutual Ass-Kicking Society. Much success to my agent, Ethan Ellenberg, who now has the task of convincing people to publish this book in all sorts of different languages.
Thanks to friends and family who helped keep me from going insane. In no particular order: Deven Desai, Kevin Stampfl, Daniel Mainz, Shara Zoll, Natasha Kordus, Stephanie Lynn, Karen Meisner, Stephen Bennett, Cian Chang, Christy Gaitten, John Anderson, Rick McGinnis, Joe Rybicki, Karen and Bob Basye, Ted Rall, Shelley Skinner, Eric Zorn, Pamela Ribon (you’re up!), Mykal Burns, Bill Dickson and Regan Avery. A tip of the hat to Whatever readers and By The Way readers, who have had to suffer through me blogging about the publishing experience. A kiss and love to Kristine and Athena Scalzi, who had to live through it all. Mom, Heather, Bob, Gale, Karen, Dora, Mike, Brenda, Richard, all the nieces, nephews, cousins, aunts and uncles (there’s a lot). I’m forgetting people, obviously, but I don’t want to overstay my welcome.
Finally: Thank you, Robert A. Heinlein, for debts that have (since these acknowledgments are placed in the back of the book) become obvious.
JOHN SCALZI
June 2004
Excerpt from
The Ghost Brigades
by John Scalzi,
to be published March 2006
“Do you remember who I am?” the human at the table said, as Cainen was led to the room. His captors had provided him with a stool that accommodated his (to them) backward-facing knees. The human spoke and the translation came out of a speaker on the table. The only other object on the table was a syringe, filled with a clear fluid.
“You are the soldier who knocked me unconscious,” Cainen said. The translator did not give a translation of his words, suggesting that the soldier had another translation device somewhere.
; “That’s right,” the human said. “I am Lieutenant Jane Sagan.” She motioned at the stool. “Please sit.”
Cainen sat. “It was not necessary to knock me unconscious,” he said. “I would have come willingly.”
“We had our reasons for wanting you unconscious,” Sagan said. She motioned to his injured arm, where Aten Randt’s bullet had struck him. “How is your arm?” She asked.
“It feels fine,” said Cainen.
“We weren’t able to fix it entirely,” Sagan said. “Our medical technology can rapidly heal most of our injuries, but you are Rraey, not human. Our technologies don’t map precisely. But we did what we could.”
“Thank you,” Cainen said.
Copyright © 2006 by John Scalzi
“I assume you were shot by the Eneshan we found you with,” Sagan said. “The one you shot.”
“Yes,” Cainen said.
“I’m curious as to why you two engaged in a firefight,” Sagan said.
“He was going to kill me, and I didn’t want to die,” said Cainen.
“This begs the question of why this Eneshan wanted you dead,” Sagan said.
“I was his prisoner,” Cainen said. “I suppose his orders were to kill me rather than to allow me to be taken alive.”
“You were his prisoner,” Sagan repeated. “And yet you had a weapon.”
“I found it,” Cainen said.
“Really,” Sagan said. “That’s poor security on the part of the Enesha. That’s not like them.”
“We all make mistakes,” Cainen said.
“And all the other Rraey we found in the base?” Sagan asked. “They were prisoners as well?”
“They were,” Cainen said, and felt a wave of concern for Sharan and the rest of his staff.
“How was it that you all came to be prisoners of the Eneshans?” Sagan asked.
“We were on a Rraey ship that was taking us to one of our colonies for a medical rotation,” Cainen said. “The Eneshans attacked our ship. They boarded us and took my crew prisoner and sent us here.”
“How long ago was this?” Sagan asked.
“Some time ago,” Cainen said. “I’m not exactly sure. We’re on Eneshan military time here, and I’m unfamiliar with their units. And then there’s the local planetary rotational period, which is fast and makes things more confusing. And I am also unfamiliar with human time divisions, so I can’t describe it accurately.”
“Our intelligence does not have any record of the Eneshans attacking a Rraey vessel in the last year—that would be about two thirds of a hked for you,” Sagan said, using the Rraey term for a full orbit of the home world around its sun.
“Perhaps your intelligence is not as good as you think,” Cainen said.
“It’s possible,” Sagan said. “However, given that the Eneshans and the Rraey are still technically in a state of war, an attacked ship should have been noted. Your two peoples have fought over less.”
“I can’t tell you any more about it than what I know,” Cainen said. “We were taken off the ship and to the base. What happened or didn’t happen outside of the base in all this time is not a subject I know much about.”
“You were being held prisoner at the base,” Sagan said.
“Yes,” Cainen said.
“We’ve been all through the base, and there’s only a small detention area,” Sagan said. “There’s nothing to suggest you were locked up.”
Cainen gave the Rraey equivalent of a rueful chuckle. “If you’ve seen the base you’ve also no doubt seen the surface of the planet,” he said. “If any of us tried to escape we’d freeze before we got very far. Not to mention that there’s nowhere to go.”
“How do you know that?” Sagan said.
“The Eneshans told us,” Cainen said. “And none of my crew planned an excursion to test the proposition.”
“So you know nothing else of the planet,” Sagan said.
“Sometimes it’s cold, other times it is colder,” Cainen said. “That is the depth of my knowledge of the planet.”
“You’re a doctor,” Sagan said.
“I’m not familiar with that term,” Cainen said, and pointed at the speaker. “Your machine is not smart enough to give an equivalent in my language.”
“You’re a medical professional. You do medicine,” Sagan said.
“I am,” Cainen said. “I specialize in genetics. That is why my staff and I were on that ship. One of our colonies was experiencing a plague that was affecting gene sequencing and cell division. We were sent to investigate and hopefully find a cure. I’m sure if you’ve been through the base you’ve seen our equipment. Our captors were kind enough to give us space for a lab.”
“Why would they do that?” Sagan asked.
“Perhaps they thought if we kept busy with our own projects we would be easier to handle,” Cainen said. “If so, it worked, because as a rule we kept to ourselves and tried not to make any trouble.”
“Except for when you were stealing weapons, that is,” Sagan said.
“I had them for some time, so apparently I didn’t arouse their suspicions,” Cainen said.
“The weapon you used was designed for a Rraey,” Sagan said. “An odd thing for an Eneshan military base.”
“They must have taken it from our ship as they boarded,” Cainen said. “I’m sure as you search the base you’ll find a number of other Rraey-designed items.”
“So, to recap,” Sagan said. “You and your crew of medical personnel were taken by the Eneshans an indeterminate time ago and brought here, where you’ve been prisoners and out of communication with any of your people. You don’t know where you are or what plans the Enesha have for you.”
“That’s right,” Cainen said. “Other than that I suppose they didn’t want anyone to know I was there once the base was invaded, because one of them tried to kill me.”
“That’s true,” Sagan said. “You fared better than your crew, I’m afraid.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Cainen said.
“You’re the only Rraey that we found alive,” Sagan said. “The rest had been shot and killed by the Eneshans. Most of them were in what appeared to be barracks. We found another near what I imagine was your lab, since it had quite a bit of Rraey technology in it.”
Cainen felt sick. “You’re lying,” he said.
“I’m afraid not,” Sagan said.
“You humans killed them,” Cainen said, angrily.
“The Eneshans tried to kill you,” Sagan said. “Why wouldn’t they kill the other members of your crew?”
“I don’t believe you,” Cainen said.
“I understand why you wouldn’t,” Sagan said. “It’s still the truth.”
Cainen sat there, grieving. Sagan gave him time.
“All right,” Cainen said, eventually. “Tell me what you want from me.”
“For starters, Administrator Cainen,” Sagan said, “we’d like the truth.”
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.
OLD MAN’S WAR
Copyright © 2005 by John Scalzi
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
Edited by Patrick Nielsen Hayden
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Scalzi, John, 1969-
Old man’s war / John Scalzi.—1st ed.
p. cm.
“A Tom Doherty Associates book.”
ISBN: 978-0-7653-0940-2
1. Life on other planets—Fiction. 2. Space colonies—Fiction. 3. Space warfare—Fiction. 4. Older men—Fiction. 5. Soldiers—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3619.C256O43
2005
813'.6—dc22
2004057953